


All That's Profane

by Spencer5460



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, use of profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: No matter how much he drank or how ribald the conversation, Hutch never used profanity, until the night a trucker waved him down.





	All That's Profane

The Hutchinsons never used profanity. They were too well bred. Course language was for common folk - the less educated, the overly emotional. Not the Hutchinsons - they took pride in holding their passions in check. 

At Lakeview Academy, young Ken Hutchinson seemed like all the other boys, well spoken and college bound. But although he blended, he never quite fit. The only places he felt free to express what was pent up inside him was behind home plate, when the powerful connection of his bat with a ball would make a satisfying crack, or in his room late at night where the down pillows swallowed every sound.

Things were different at the police academy in California. A far cry from Duluth, Minnesota and the furthest he could get from the confines of home, the students here came from all walks of life. A myriad of backgrounds crossed paths with an array of races. The mingling of accents in the hallways reminded him of the proverbial Tower of Babel. 

Although Hutch enjoyed the spirited cacophony, he remained polite and reserved to a fault. Rather than blend in as he'd been accustomed, here his gentility stood out. “Hey asshole, this is a police academy, not Sunday school,” the guys would rib Ken, earning him the nickname of ‘the “Priest,’ among other less polite monikers. He would just smile shyly and look away. 

Not so David Starsky. “Fuck you,” Starsky would call back jauntily. Originally from New York and by way of Vietnam, Starsky had the most colorful language of them all. The stories and jokes he told after hours were so laced with profanity that Ken’s ears would burn just listening to them. But Dave never teased him about his sensibilities. The most he ever called Ken was ‘Hutch’ or every now and then, ‘Blondie’. Somehow Ken didn’t mind when he did.

Despite the obvious differences in their backgrounds and temperaments, Dave and Ken quickly became friends. Starsky acclimated Hutch to life on the street, Hutch helped Dave write a passable, if not eloquent, report. By the time they had finished their classroom training, they were inseparable.

After long shifts, Starsky and Hutch would get together with their fellow rookies to drink and one up each other with stories of their beats - the jaded hooker with tits the size of melons, the lowlife creep who’d slapped around his wife until she'd hit back harder. But no matter how much he drank or how ribald the conversation, Hutch never used profanity. And anyone who teased him about it would get an evil eye from Starsky.

Hutch and his training partner had been assigned to patrol the warehouse district. One early morning when their shift almost done, they were waived down by a distraught older man in a plaid jacket and trucker’s cap. “Hey,” he called to them. “I think there might be a body over there,” he said, pointing shakily to an outbuilding overgrown with weeds from lack of use. 

“I just parked my rig to take a piss. I saw something that looked like a hand poking out from the dirt pile around back,” the man reported nervously. “I don’t mind sayin’ I took off like a jackrabbit.”

Hutch got out of the car and followed the trucker’s direction as his partner waited in the car. Most likely, it was an oddly shaped branch or even part of a tossed out mannequin. He circled the outbuilding, shining a flashlight into the overgrown bushes. Suddenly, there it was. Three pale fingers protruded from a odd mound as if clawing at the earth. Hutch knelt down and dug carefully at the soil, his stomach churning. The body of a young girl barely into her teens, half clothed and badly beaten, emerged from under a layer of dirt and brush. Nothing in the classroom had prepared him for the stark reality of the sight. Her face was bloated beyond recognition, but a pink barrette still clung to her mass of blonde hair. Blood-stained, lacy underwear was twisted around one small ankle. Her once glittery toenail polish was muddied and chipped.

Hutch fell backwards, his last meal burning his stomach and threatening to come up. _Christ. She was just a baby._ He took several deep breaths to steady himself, then yelled to his partner. “Call it in. 10-54 and we’ll need a coroner.” When he returned to the car, he leaned on it heavily. His knees felt like Jello. _Get a grip, Hutchinson. What did you think this job was? A day at Disneyland?_

Within minutes they were joined by a team from homicide and several other police units, Starsky’s among them. Hutch’s training partner took a statement from the trucker who had flagged them down. A few ghoulish reporters appeared as if out of nowhere. As several stern-faced specialists examined the scene, Hutch overheard their flat conjectures. A possible abduction, more likely a runaway or even a child prostitute. 

When he thought he wouldn’t be needed for a few minutes, Hutch escaped to the seclusion of a nearby alley. But his disappearing act didn’t go unnoticed. As Hutch paced in the alley, Starsky held back silently. It didn’t take long for Hutch to erupt with the violence of a volcano. He shouted to the sky, cursing God with words he didn’t even know he knew, then pounded a brick wall until his palms were bloody. “Goddamn mother fucker!” He yelled over and over until his legs gave out and he sunk to the ground. 

Starsky came to him then, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around him as Hutch convulsed with unshed tears. When the tears came, they were a river that soaked Starsky’s shirt.

“Let it out, boy, just let it out,” Starsky crooned until Hutch’s tears had run dry and he was left shuddering in Starsky’s arms. 

After a few minutes, Hutch straightened and wiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Christ, Starsk. I’m so sorry. I’m not much of a cop to fall apart like that.”

“Shit, are you kiddin’ me? You’re not made of stone. Somethin’ like this, well, it can get to the best of us.”

“I just feel so weak for not being able to control my feelings,” Hutch admitted, his stomach slowing unclenching. His ragged breathing regulating. 

“You can't fool me, babe. You've been holding it together for so long, I've always thought you were the strongest one of all.”

With Starsky’s help, Hutch stood back up, braced for the job ahead. He was going to nail this bastard's balls to the wall. _Hell yeah._

**FIN**


End file.
